One final chance for The Chance…

I am allowed five attempts each year to try for The Chance. If I don’t make it this time, I won’t even be allowed to apply until June of 2012, at the earliest. They’ve rejected me four times. And I need to make them change their minds about me.

So when I heard there was an opportunity to witness live interviews, with 300 people in an audience watching potential interviewees compete – and in doing so, actually attempt to qualify for The Chance, I couldn’t waste that opportunity.

September 21, 2011. It’s 5:00 a.m. The only people up this early are milkmen and people stumbling home from last call. But I need to get up this early. I need to be out the door by 5:00 a.m. to get to New York City for another try. My appointment is at 9:00 a.m. Four hours for a 2 1/2 hour drive. Yeah. I got this in the bag.

Let’s Go, Cardachrome – next stop, New York City.

As I drive down the Thruway, I keep thinking to myself. Why am I doing this? Why am I trying every single time? Why do I keep knocking on the door, when they haven’t accepted me yet?

Because I can’t give up. I can’t give up any more than a starting pitcher gives up when he sees Prince Fielder step into the batter’s box. I can’t give up any more than an actor who momentarily forgets his lines on stage and doesn’t think to ad-lib his way out of the problem.

I pull over at the Ramapo rest area and get some breakfast. Checking my watch. 7:45. My appointment is at 9am. I can make this. Nom nom nom. Back in the car I go.

Oh great. 1010 WINS radio says there’s traffic backed up on the Tappan Zee Bridge. No problem. All I have to do is shoot down the Palisades Parkway – oh look, there’s Exit 13A – and I’m on my way.

And two miles before I reached the end of the Palisades Parkway, I ran into a massive traffic snarl. 30 minutes to get from SEEING the E-ZPass toll booth to actually PASSING THROUGH the E-ZPass toll booth.

I kept checking my watch. 8:40. This isn’t looking good.

The George Washington Bridge looks like a damn parking lot. Oh great. Disabled vehicle on the bridge. Come on now…

9:00 and I’m just getting on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Crap.

9:20. I finally get the car parked. Then I sprint to the interview building. 20 minutes late. That’s a great way to make an impression for The Chance.

There’s a line outside the door of the building. They haven’t gone in yet. Lucky me. I go up to an attendant.

“Name?”

“Miller. First name, Chuck.”

“Oh good, I have you here. Take this yellow ticket.”

I took the ticket. “What’s this for?”

“Well, since you didn’t arrive on time, you’re actually on stand-by. We have to make sure everybody else with a green ticket,” she said, pointing to the long line of attendees, “gets in. Then if we have seats left, then we can add any stand-by attendees.”

Unlucky me. I could have driven all the way down here… and missed my chance at The Chance completely? Argh.

I walk over to the line and queue up.

“No, sir – the people with the yellow tickets stand in THAT line,” she said, pointing to the line further down the sidewalk.

I almost wanted to do the Charlie Brown sulk as I walked all the way down to the end of the queue.

The green-ticketed people go in. Then we wait. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

“We have room for thirteen people on stand-by,” I hear someone call.

An attendant starts counting everyone in line. “We have twelve in line.”

“Okay,” she said, “all stand-by must enter the building now.”

We enter the room. Pass through the metal detector. I do not take off my high school ring. No way. Not this time. The machine lets me through anyway.

We then wait some more – and then we’re herded into an auditorium. The auditorium is arranged like a medical theater, where the people are sitting on high risers around a small, circular stage. We are then handed our question forms and answer sheets.

I know the routine. Thirty minutes. Ten questions.

Begin – - – - now.

I go through the routine. I know the answers. Kanye West. Seven. Massachusetts. Kate Hudson. Plantanganet. Shirley Jackson. Sookie. Not Snooki. Bang. Bang. Bang. I got this. Maybe 28 out of 30, and I guessed the other two.

Time’s up.

We hand in our answer slips and our questionnaires.

A few minutes later, one of the interviewers comes out to the stage. “Does everybody remember their number, the number we asked you to write on your answer slips next to your name?” she asked.

I do. 24. Me and Jack Bauer.

“Can I see the person with number 93?”

A woman, three rows away from me, stood up.

The attendant walked over and asked her if she had the test questions in her purse or on her person. She opened her purse and pulled out the questionnaire. Ten seconds later, security guards escorted the woman out of the auditorium. They weren’t kidding about security on The Chance.

Then, a comedian entered the arena, and told jokes to warm up the crowd. He’s pretty funny, apparently he was a writer for The Daily Show, and he has a great interaction with the audience. He then passes clipboards out to the audience, encouraging the audience members to provide e-mail addresses so that when he comes to our area, we can see him perform. I asked if he ever played in Albany. He said yes, he’s played at the Egg and at The Comedy Works. I didn’t bother asking him which location of The Comedy Works, because there’s been about twelve “official” locations to that establishment.

Then The Chance begins. For two hours, interviewee after interviewee are brought on stage. They are interviewed. Some of them pass the interviews and walk away with a better life. Some people fail the interviews and walk away with nothing more than the embarrassment their friends will pour upon them when their nationwide failure is discovered.

After about two hours, the warm-up comedian enters the arena again. “Okay, I’m going to read about six or seven names, these are the people who passed the written test. If your name is called, stay here, otherwise please leave the building immediately through that silver door.”

Heart’s beating. This is my fifth and final shot. Keep positive. Fingers crossed.

“Okay, is there a Chuck Miller in the audience?”

Fist pump. I made it past the written test again!!

300 people leave the building. Six of us – including me – remain.

Then I was approached by one of the screeners. “Oh wait,” she said. “I recognize you. I can’t interview you. It’s part of our rules, you have to be interviewed by another person.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

She pointed toward a blonde-haired screener, who was interviewing another applicant and taking her picture. “We’ll wait until she’s done with that interview.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “I was interviewed by her the last time I tried out.”

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll find you somebody. Don’t worry.” She then walked over to another applicant, took down her information, and took her picture.

Five minutes later, another screener started to interview me. He asked me why I wanted to try for The Chance. He asked me what I would do if I survived The Chance. He asked me many questions. I gave him straight answers, remained positive and upbeat, and never wavered.

He said that I would receive a postcard in three weeks.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Am I limited to five ‘interviews’ before I’m blocked for the year?”

“No,” he smiled. “It’s five times that you’ve taken the test, pass or fail.”

Oh Lord. Then this is REALLY my last try this year, win or lose.

“Please, please, if there’s anything you can do…”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I like your interview.” And with that, he left. He never took my picture.

This is as close to the Chance as I’ve ever gotten.

It’s close. Very close.

I just need to be awarded that extra step.

As I drove back home, I kept thinking… why didn’t the screener take my picture? Every other person who passed the written test got their picture taken. Why not mine? Is this a sign that they don’t want me at all, and aren’t even going to go the extra step to give me the illusion that I could have made it through?

===

October 17, 2011. Mailbox. Postcard. From the Chance.

This is it. I’ve tried out five times this year. FIVE FREAKIN’ TIMES. One time I didn’t pass the test at all. Four other times I passed the test and went to the interview portion of the tryout. Three times I received the same white postcard, the same rejection notice, the same waste of 29 cents to let me know that they didn’t want me.

Because if The Chance rejects me one more time, then I’m barred from trying out again until next summer.

Come on, Chance. Give me a try. Please. You know I can play. You know I have it in me. Please.

I sit down. I turn the card over.

“Thank you for your interest in becoming a contestant on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.” You have not been selected to be a potential contestant. We appreciate your continued interest in the show and thank you for taking the time to audition with us. Game sponsor reserves the right to limit the number of times a person may attempt to qualify for the show to five times per year. For official rules, please visit www.millionairetv.com.”

It is now official. I’ve failed. Zero for five. I’ve reached my maximum amount of tryouts for the year.

And for a few minutes, that wasn’t what I saw on the paper. My eyes saw those words, but my brain translated the words into something else… something that truly spoke to how I felt at that very moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, take a look over here at this pathetic waste of time, Chuck Miller. He’s a failure. Hey Miller, how does it feel to get rejected over and over again? Just like when you were in college and trying to date. Guess what, you turnip. You have about as much chance of getting on our show as – well, zero. Because you’re NEVER getting on our show. And to celebrate, we’re going to send bottles of champagne to all the people who are actively cheering your demise. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! You are never – and we mean NE-E-E-E-VER – getting on this show. And THAT is our final answer. Have a nice day – you loser.”

But come June of 2012… I’ll be back in New York City. Back in line. Back and ready to take the test again.

Because I can sit in my apartment and feel like crap… and I can sit here and think horrible things about myself…

But I’m not going to do that. I won’t do that. I’m going to remain positive.

What benefit is it to me if I sit and mope and cry over not getting on the show? What benefit? No benefit at all.

You knock me down five times, I’m standing up six. And I’m not going to give up.

I never gave up on Altamont.

I never gave up on Allen’s grave marker.

And whatever it takes… whatever I have to do… I will do it. And I will keep doing it until I achieve success.

So I failed five times this year? They’re not failures. They’re potholes and frost heaves and roadblocks. And I will get through every one of them. “Failure” means that I gave up. And I’m not giving up.

You’ll get it Chuck, I have faith in you. You’re just getting better at taking the test & getting accepted. You had a good ribbon year this year compared to last year, so maybe 2012 you’ll be getting ‘your chance’.

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